Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7)

by Steve Robinson

  Tayte had seen it. ‘I’ll just try searching for the Christie name to begin with,’ he said. ‘There shouldn’t be too many entries, and I don’t want to risk missing anything.’

  There was a match found on nineteen of the publication’s pages. Tayte read out the first. ‘This is the second tiger Colonel Christie has brought to bag in seven days.’

  ‘I think we can discount that one,’ Sinclair said.

  The next was also about Colonel Christie and his tiger-hunting, so Tayte read on, discarding each and every match he came to until the list had been exhausted.

  ‘On to 1871,’ he said as he opened the subsequent publication from Google Books.

  This time there were sixteen matches with the Christie name, and Tayte was disappointed to see yet more news in the first two of Colonel Christie’s hunting exploits. Next was a match in the Madras civil section, then one for a Captain H. T. Christie in the ‘Military Furloughs’ section. There was a match under ‘Passengers Departed’ and two more for the aforementioned captain. Tayte was beginning to think he would exhaust all these matches, too, when he saw an entry that caused him to catch his breath. It was under the heading ‘Jaipur’ in the miscellaneous column of the publication dated Tuesday, 14 March 1871.

  ‘This has to be it,’ he said, narrowing his eyes on the report as he read the highlights out to Sinclair. ‘Heartless vandalism,’ he said. ‘Christie tomb desecrated.’

  Sinclair was reading it with him. ‘It doesn’t say much, does it?’

  ‘No,’ Tayte agreed. ‘But I think it says enough.’

  The report was no more than a few lines describing the incident, blaming it on continued unrest among the natives following the Indian Mutiny of 1857, which had later become known as the Indian Rebellion. Perhaps it didn’t say much, but it was everything Tayte hoped to find.

  ‘Civil unrest be damned,’ Sinclair said, voicing Tayte’s thoughts. ‘That was surely Sir Robert Christie’s work.’

  ‘The timing fits,’ Tayte said. ‘What are the odds of the Christie tomb surviving close to fifty years, only to be desecrated around the same time our man happens to be in the area?’

  ‘I should say they were very slim.’

  ‘And why doesn’t the report mention any other damaged graves? We know from Jane’s letter that the Christie tomb was in a British cemetery. If this was due to civil unrest, why was this the only tomb that had been desecrated?’

  ‘As you say, Mr Tayte, the report says enough. It tells us all we need to know. My four-times-great-grandfather, Sir Robert Christie, went to India and literally dug up the Blood of Rajputana from his own sister’s grave.’

  Tayte closed his laptop and sat back in his chair. ‘The question now is what did he do with it?’

  ‘Aye,’ Sinclair said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. ‘I suppose he could have sold it, although if he had, surely something so large and so precious would have shown up by now. Unless it was cut up, of course.’

  ‘I’m not so sure he’d have sold it,’ Tayte said. ‘We know from Robert’s tomb that he died in 1873, two years after the desecration. It might have taken him almost that long to travel home again. By then he would have had very little time to do anything at all with the ruby. It seems likely that he knew he was sick, dying even, in which case what benefit would there be in selling it? He was already a wealthy man. He didn’t need the money.’ A shiver ran down Tayte’s spine then, as an obvious answer hit him. ‘What if he left it to his illegitimate son, Angus Fraser?’

  The idea seemed to render Sinclair speechless.

  ‘It makes perfect sense,’ Tayte said. ‘Robert left this house to Angus. He clearly wanted to do good by him. Robert was a dying man with no other family to leave anything to, so Angus got the house, and perhaps a whole lot more besides.’

  ‘So maybe Angus sold it,’ Sinclair said. ‘He’d have needed money to keep this place going.’

  ‘Didn’t you say that Angus was left a tidy sum by his stepfather?’

  ‘Aye, that’s right. So he didn’t need the money, either.’

  ‘And as you’ve said, such a ruby coming on to the market would have drawn interest. I’m sure the Blood of Rajputana would be more widely heard of by now if it had been sold.’

  Another thought crossed Tayte’s mind, and he voiced it. ‘There was no mention of such a ruby in Sir Robert Christie’s will—only the house and its contents. What if Angus was supposed to find it at Drumarthen, but for some reason he didn’t?’

  Sinclair drew a deep breath and thoughtfully let it go again. ‘Then it’s still here?’ he said, and they both stared at one another as the single most obvious place for it to have remained hidden and untouched all these years hit them.

  ‘Sir Robert Christie’s tomb,’ they said together, as both men stood up, eager to go and take a look.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tayte had seen the inside of a great many crypts during the course of his work, but few unsettled him as much as the long-forgotten crypt beneath Drumarthen. Perhaps it was because the place had been sealed off and had gone untended for so many years, or perhaps it was the presence of that solitary sarcophagus in the centre of the chamber and the way the dust seemed to drape over it like a ghostly veil. Either way, he was keen to get on with what had to be done and get out of there again.

  They each had a crowbar in one hand and a torch in the other as they approached along the low tunnel that led to the chamber. Murray wasn’t with them. Sinclair had tried to contact him, both by shouting for him and then calling his mobile phone, which he usually only carried with him when he was out on the estate, in case Sinclair needed to speak with him. They had even gone back to the old wine cellar to look for him, but he wasn’t there, so Sinclair had fetched the crowbars from the tool shed himself.

  ‘Should we be concerned about Murray?’ Tayte asked, still wondering where he was.

  ‘I’m sure he’s just fine,’ Sinclair said. ‘He’s probably outside somewhere and he’s forgotten to take his phone with him. That’s all it is.’

  They came to the stone steps at the entrance to the chamber, and as he and Sinclair descended towards the sarcophagus, Tayte shone his torchlight over it. Maybe it was the dry, dusty environment that made his throat feel so parched, but he thought it was more likely on account of the discovery he hoped they were about to make. They stopped beside the sarcophagus and Tayte set his torch down, shining the beam up at the ceiling to spread the light out. Then he ran the palm of his hand over the top edge of the stonework to clear the dust away, trying to see where the lid joined the main body.

  ‘Here’s our way in,’ he told Sinclair as he raised his crowbar and set it into place.

  Sinclair copied him at the other end, working the flat tip of his crowbar into the seam that ran around the sarcophagus. ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘Okay then, on three,’ Tayte said, bracing himself. ‘One, two, three!’

  Both men leaned on their crowbars together, pushing at the same time, trying to raise the stone lid and slide it back. It moved, but not by much. Now, however, there was more of a gap to work their crowbars into.

  ‘Again,’ Tayte said. ‘One, two, three!’

  This time the lid lifted and slid a couple of inches, revealing a dark crack along the top edge. Tayte half expected some unholy stench to ensue, but the air didn’t smell any different from the dry, stale air in the rest of the chamber. He didn’t really know what to expect from the contents—the decay of human remains wasn’t something he’d found cause to study before—but as he and Sinclair set their crowbars into place again, he imagined he was about to find out.

  ‘One more push should do it,’ he said, still wondering what sights were about to meet his eyes as he began to heave on his crowbar again.

  Then he jumped as the otherwise eerily silent chamber was suddenly filled with the echoing melody of the latest show tune he’d installed on his phone. He dropped his crowbar with a clatter that kicked up the dust, looked ap
ologetically at Sinclair and answered the call.

  ‘Jefferson Tayte,’ he announced as he stooped and picked the crowbar up again.

  ‘Mr Tayte, it’s DI Ross. I have some news and I couldn’t get an answer on the home number. I’ve tried Damian’s mobile, too, but it goes straight to voicemail.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ Tayte said. ‘I’m with Mr Sinclair now. We’re in the basement looking for the ruby. You’re breaking up a little.’

  ‘That would explain it then,’ Ross said. ‘I’ll be as brief as I can in case the signal drops out altogether. My news concerns Callum Macrae. I thought it might be important for you to know that it’s unlikely Callum Macrae killed himself.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Aye, the time of death’s all wrong. Callum was already dead when that text message was sent to you. It doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t kill himself, we’re still looking into that, but there’s no way he could have sent the message. I believe Callum was murdered, just like the rest, and I believe that message was sent by his killer.’

  ‘I see,’ Tayte said. ‘So he’s still out there.’

  ‘Maybe not out here so much as in there, if you catch my drift.’

  Tayte did. Ross’s message had been received loud and very clear. If Callum Macrae hadn’t killed himself, then someone else had killed him, and unless Sinclair’s Rajputs were real and among them in present-day Scotland, there were few potential suspects left. He supposed he could rule DI Ross out. If Ross was behind this, why would he let on that it was unlikely Callum Macrae had killed himself? It would surely be in his best interest to leave Tayte and everyone else at Drumarthen believing the killer was dead—that they were safe. As far as Tayte could see that only left two suspects, both of whom were there at Drumarthen with him.

  Tayte’s eyes wandered along the sarcophagus to Sinclair and the crowbar he was holding. He wondered whether Sinclair had been pushing the idea that these loyal Rajputs were behind this in an attempt to draw suspicion away from himself. Jane’s letters made them real, but could they really be seeking the Blood of Rajputana today, almost two hundred years after Naresh Bharat Singh had stolen it? There was no doubt in Tayte’s mind that Sinclair needed money, whether he cared to admit it or not. Was this all about Drumarthen? Such a ruby could be used to restore the house to its former glory. Or had he made one too many bad investments in London?

  Tayte had to remind himself then that this wasn’t all about the money that could be made from the sale of the Blood of Rajputana should it be found. People had been murdered—family members who’d had little to no chance of finding the ruby for themselves. What threat had their search for it really posed? Surely not enough to warrant their murders. Just the same, with his eyes still on the crowbar in Sinclair’s hands, Tayte couldn’t help but wonder whether he was in that chamber with the killer right now. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

  ‘Thank you for the information,’ he said to Ross, sounding calm, trying to play it cool. ‘Do let us know if there are any further developments.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to,’ Ross said. ‘I’ve plenty keeping me busy for now, but I’ll be over as soon as I can.’

  As the call ended, Sinclair said, ‘I take it that was Ross. What did he say?’

  Tayte was reluctant to tell Sinclair that Callum hadn’t sent the text message, which in all probability meant that he had been murdered just like all the rest. It was information he wanted to keep to himself for now, because if Sinclair was behind this he supposed it was better to let him go on thinking that his plan to frame Callum had worked. But how could he not tell him? What if Sinclair was innocent? If he was, then he also had every right to know that the killer was still at large.

  ‘He told me he believes Callum Macrae was murdered,’ Tayte said, carefully watching Sinclair’s reaction, supposing that such news would come as a blow to him if he were behind all this. ‘He was already dead by the time that text message was sent to me.’

  Sinclair’s only physical reaction to the news was a slow rise and fall of his eyebrows. ‘That’s a worry, then,’ he said. ‘Still, I’m sure Murray has the place locked up tight as a drum.’ He shook his crowbar. ‘Ready?’

  Tayte wished all the more that he knew where Murray was. From what Sinclair had told him about the death of Murray’s daughter, Murray had a reason to dislike every one of the victims. But was it enough to kill them? And why now? If murder was in his mind, why wait so long after his daughter’s death to enact his revenge? It was, however, hard to ignore the fact that Murray had access to the missing shotgun, and to the house in general. It would have been easy for him to leave each and every one of Jane’s letters.

  As Tayte set his crowbar into place, ready to give the sarcophagus lid one last heave, another thought occurred to him, the most unsettling of all. What if Sinclair and Murray were in on this together—Sinclair for the money he could use to rebuild his family home, Murray for revenge? Was he in the house with two cold-blooded killers?

  ‘Mr Tayte?’ Sinclair said, clearly having noticed Tayte’s hesitance. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Tayte said, concluding that he had little choice for now but to continue. ‘On three,’ he said again. ‘One, two, three!’

  Both men leaned on their crowbars and pushed again, and this time they kept pushing. The sarcophagus lid began to slide until it became unbalanced. Then it crashed to the floor with a crack and a thud, filling the room with so much dust Tayte had to cover his mouth with his sleeve so as not to breathe it in. When the dust began to settle he peered down into the sarcophagus and saw the pale grey skeletal remains of Sir Robert Christie, wearing full Highland dress in the now-faded ancient Christie tartan colours of orange, black, white, blue and yellow.

  Tayte turned away again, partly out of respect and partly because he didn’t have much stomach for looking at dead bodies, however old they were. ‘He’s your ancestor,’ he said to Sinclair. ‘I’ll leave the rest to you, if you don’t mind.’

  Sinclair had already started searching for the ruby. He gave a nod and continued to rummage inside the sarcophagus with both hands, his enthusiasm to know whether it was there written all over his face. Tayte watched him move slowly along the sarcophagus towards him, his features souring with disappointment more and more with every step he took.

  When he was standing beside Tayte at the foot of the sarcophagus, he shone his torch over it and took one last look inside. Then he shook his head and said, ‘It’s not there.’

  Tayte had begun to expect as much. ‘I guess we shouldn’t be too surprised,’ he said.

  ‘We shouldn’t?’

  ‘No, I mean how could your ancestor have trusted anyone enough to carry out such a wish? The temptation to take the ruby for themselves would surely have been too strong. At least, I expect that would have been going through Sir Robert’s mind. After all, he himself had killed a man merely for the letters that pointed to the ruby’s whereabouts.’

  ‘That’s a fair point,’ Sinclair said. ‘So what else do you think he might have done with it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Tayte said. ‘Let’s get some fresh air. I don’t know about you, but I’ve definitely had enough of this place. Maybe it’ll help us think.’

  As they made their way out, Tayte also thought it would be good to get back up into the main body of the house, closer to the front door. A big part of him was relieved that the ruby wasn’t in that sarcophagus. If Sinclair was behind this, Drumarthen’s basement was the last place he wanted to be when the Blood of Rajputana was found. As far as he was concerned, the sooner DI Ross got there the better. For now, though, he figured he would just have to keep going and hold out until the detective inspector arrived.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  By the time Tayte and Sinclair arrived back in Drumarthen’s main hallway, Tayte’s thoughts had turned to the paintings he’d previously heard about. He’d been told they were the cause of a long-running family feud between the Sinclairs and the Macra
es, and they were from Sir Robert Christie’s time. That made them worth exploring further. Perhaps between them they held some clue to the ruby’s whereabouts.

  ‘What else can you tell me about those paintings Moira Macrae wanted?’ he asked as they reached the foot of the stairs.

  They stopped walking and Sinclair sat down on one of the lower steps. ‘There were only three paintings left to Angus in his mother’s will. I really can’t see what all the fuss has been about. They were painted by a Scottish portrait artist called Andrew Geddes. His work is well known, so I suppose they’re worth a bob or two. He died in the 1840s.’

  ‘That was three decades before Robert Christie died,’ Tayte said, shaking his head. ‘To have any significance they would have to have been painted around the time of Robert’s death or perhaps soon after.’ A moment later, he added, ‘Unless it’s not the paintings themselves that are important.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean there could be something written on the back of them, or hidden inside the frames. It’s possible that Robert had written a secret message to his son on these paintings somewhere and asked Aileen Fraser to leave them to Angus in her will. Maybe she still cared enough for him to fulfil his dying wish.’

  ‘Aye,’ Sinclair said with renewed hope in his voice. ‘And it’s not so much to ask a mother to leave a few portraits to one of her sons, illegitimate or otherwise, despite how Angus’s siblings might have felt about it.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Tayte agreed. ‘We know from the research both you and Gordon Drummond carried out that Aileen outlived Robert by more than ten years, so there’s every chance we’re on the right track here. I think we need to go and take a look at those paintings. Do you know where they are?’

  Sinclair threw his head back. ‘Now you’re asking. So many things have been moved around over the years, it’s hard to keep track of it all.’

  ‘But you do still have them?’